I've been Prezza-d!

Go find John Prescott, they said. 'He's somewhere in the Midlands.' Before the tape recorder self-destructed I was told to locate the deputy Prime Minister on his 'Prescott Express' campaign bus.

He has been on the road all election but has been refusing to tell anyone of his whereabouts.

The idea: to watch this so-called politician of the people meet voters. Could he persuade them that Labour is the party of trust and transparency?

In any general election it is the duty of the press to have a gander at men seeking high office. They tax us and take us to war and bulldoze our green fields. The least we should do is inspect their wares before an election.

Calls to the Prescott Express, seeking information from his sidekick Bev Priest, met with a hint of suppressed laughter. 'You want to find out where he is today?' said a male voice. 'Ha! I'm sure you would! Brrrrrrrrr.' Line dead.

Labour in London refused to disclose Prezza's itinerary. When Our Hero visited Cornwall on Monday the locals were given just ten minutes' advance notice. Getting a radar fix on the Prescott Express was not going to be easy.

Plainly this was a job for Sherlock Holmes, so I donned cape, deerstalker hat and magnifying glass and took to the streets of Birmingham. Obvious first stop: the HP sauce factory in Aston. No joy.

Next: the Chung Ying Cantonese restaurant, one of the best in the area. Big John loves a Chinese. But a waiter said no, 'no booking for anyone called Prescott'. And yesterday's special sweet and sour prawns, too.

On the 8.40am Virgin express from London I had earlier spied Nick Raynsford MP, Local Government Minister and one of the world's leading simultaneous translators of Prescottspeak. But Mr Raynsford wore a carefree smile. It was not the expression of a man about to spend the day with Two Jags. Sure enough, he failed to alight at Birmingham New Street and headed further north.

I found central Birmingham plunged in darkness. A power cut. Aha! As surely as seagulls chase a cross-Channel ferry, so does chaos pursue Thumper Prescott. Like Doctor Who, I could sense the Force was nearby. But where?

The tourist information stand had its hands full. I stopped a couple in the station concourse. 'John Prescott? Good God, we hope not,' they said. The Birmingham Hippodrome was advertising the Rat Pack, but no boxing matches or slapstick comedy.

BBC West Midlands' wellinformed Ed Doolan was saying nowt about a Prescott visit. The local Tories were unsighted. Not even the Countryside Alliance, whose pro-hunting farm lads have been magnificent Prescott baiters in recent days, could offer any information. Time for some deduction, Watson. Which Birmingham seat is Labour most desperate to hold? Answer: middle-class Edgbaston. The MP, German-born Gisela Stuart, is photogenic - and in severe danger of losing to the Tories' impressively Brummie candidate Deirdre Alden.

At 12.10pm two police cars went haring down the Hagley Road, towards Edgbaston. 'Follow those jam butties!' I cried to my valiant driver. 'Yessssir!' he yelled.

We were soon in Bartley Green, poorest ward in Edgbaston. Quite a few 'vote Labour' posters were to be seen. But at the Jiggins Lane Chippy there was no sign of any Jaguar in the car park.

A school seemed a likely place for a Prescott visit. At Newman College the food and beverage manager had heard nothing. He had not been asked to order in any extra pies, put it like that. Had I tried the Bartley Green Technology College?

Bingo! Two men in bulky raincoats stood outside its gates. 'Are you by any chance police officers?' I enquired. One, head like a battering ram, replied gruffly: 'And are you by any chance a j-ee-ourr-nalist?' By God, they're sharp these Plods.

Two women were wearing soggy red rosettes. Then I spotted the normally genial Gisela Stuart. 'What are YOU doing here?' she demanded. I was told to skedaddle.

At 1.30pm, to cheers from ten rain-lashed Labour diehards, the Prescott Express hove into view. Out came Buster Gusset himself. He scowled at poor Mrs Stuart, ignored the party faithful, and then spotted me with my anorak and drenched notebook. Whoosh! One kettle, fully boiled.

He was now stomping towards the school. I was elbowed in the ribs by a muscular woman. 'Are you a Labour official?' I wheezed. 'Certainly not!' she said, really insulted. 'I'm a police officer!'

By now Mr Prescott was on the far side of a high fence, meeting selected children. Pretty Miss Priest (built like Jason Leonard) firmly banned me from the publicly funded premises. And that, dear readers, is the way things look from the front line of democracy.